


The Courtesan And The Writer

by whovianmuse



Series: Cross-Overs [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18392945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: A Doctor Who x Moulin Rouge Cross-Over"Paris! The city of romance, of music and art! The year is 1902, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s early autumn. Look around you, it’s the Bohemian Revolution in full stride, celebrating freedom, beauty, truth, and—"The Doctor chokes on his words. Frozen, he watches as Rory tickles Amy’s nose with the rose petals, his stomach twisting as she draws him in for a truly spectacular kiss."Love," he sighs, swallowing a grimace.





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction inspired by _Doctor Who_ and _Moulin Rouge_. Respective concepts, characters, and settings from the original source content belong to their creator(s). No copyright infringement is intended.  
>   
>  **Author's Note:** So, this little miniseries has literally been sitting in my drafts folder since 2011. I think, after _The Angels Take Manhattan_ premiered, I was just too disheartened to finish it. I had it all planned out with an outline and detailed notes and everything, but I just never finished writing past the second chapter. Every once in a while, I'd take it out, dust it off, and write a little bit more for it. And now, nearly ten years later, it's finally finished! A few things to note: 1.) This is not, by any means, historically accurate, theatrically accurate, or canon-compliant with either franchise. A lot of liberties were taken. 2.) I am not very nice to Rory. Like, at all. Sorry in advance to fans of Rory Williams. 3.) This does not have a happy ending. It's just a never-ending pain train of pure angst and false hope and unrequited mutual pining all the way through, and I am so, so sorry.

**• Act One •**

 

_Today's perfume is comprised of white rose petals, with a suggestion of sugar cookie, and a hint of gingersnap. Absolutely loving the ginger scent. A bit biting when accidentally sucked through nostrils, though. Should remember that Amy's hair is to be admired, not inhaled._

The Doctor scrawls this last little note in his leather-bound journal, before carefully tucking it into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. Like clockwork, Amy comes bounding into the console room, a cascade of fiery red ringlets dancing around her shoulders, and his lips curve into a brilliant smile. Amy rushes forward, wraps her arms around his neck, and whispers, "So, Doctor, where are we off to this time?"

Regardless of the fact that he knows he shouldn't, the Doctor rests his forehead against hers, skin touching skin, so close he can feel her warm little puffs of breath ghosting over his lips, and stares down into her cat-like, olive green eyes. In the split-second that it takes for his mouth to completely sever connection with his mind, he's leaned forward to kiss her, lips pressed to her lightly freckled forehead. 

Yet another thing he knows he shouldn't have done. Shouldn't _keep doing_ , over and over again, every single time he sees her. _Had known_ ever since that fateful night after their adventure with the weeping angels that kisses cross the line. But honestly, how can we possibly help himself? It's practically tradition by now. _Expected_. It's so entirely _theirs_ that he couldn't handle the heartbreak of it if he had to stop, irrespective of the fact that he'd promised her fiancé he would. 

It's not as though it means anything more to her than a simple, affectionate gesture between two best friends. It's not as though he could ever tell her what it _actually_ means to him. Because admitting that…well, it delves deep into the terrifying realm of _feelings_ , and the Doctor doesn't _do_ feelings. Not anymore. That's rule number two. And if the Doctor ever breaks rule number two…well, he'll just have to stamp them down firmly and pretend like they don't exist, won't he? Keep them secret. Not that…that is to say, not that there's anything _to_ keep secret, of course. Because _again_ , the Doctor does not _do_ feelings, and he most _certainly_ does not have feelings for—

Amy bites her lower lip in an attempt to hide her smile, coy and wicked all at once as she leans forward and presses her lips against his forehead, kissing him in return, the gentle graze of her mouth against his skin sending jolts of electricity through his fingertips. Amy's hold on him tightens, pulling him impossibly closer until he's pressed right up against her chest, heartbeats thundering against hers in an almost perfect cadence. 

The Doctor sighs, buries his nose deep into the tendrils of Amy's long, flowing hair, and breathes her in, reveling in the magnificent beauty of her very existence, her every detail etched into the back of his mind like his favorite childhood faerie tale, remembered and written down so that she may live forever in a marriage of ink and parchment across the pages of his—

Oh. Right. _That_.

Well, then. 

His never-ending list of secrets grows longer every day, it would seem.

Amelia Pond is the Doctor's best friend, that much is certain. But that doesn't mean that she knows everything there is to know about him. It's an impossible feat, even for one bestowed with such an important title. There are far too many secrets that revolve around the Doctor's life, both minuscule and colossal, that Amy will likely never know…and perhaps it's better that way. 

He'll never tell her how many people he's kissed, or the number of times he's been in love. He'll _definitely_ never tell her about that time he accidentally parked the TARDIS in the middle of a fertility ceremony on one of the moons of Gjéndorn and then "accidentally" got involved. (Good lord, what a _clusterf—_. Erm. Anyway.) He'll never tell her about his secret stripy sock collection, or reveal to her the full extent of his obsession with fantastic hats and fancy neckwear (if Amy ever discovers that particular closet, she'll be buried alive in stetsons, fezzes, and multi-colored bowties, and he'll never hear the end of it.)

Most notably of all, he'll never tell her that he keeps a secret journal filled with every detail of their time together; a record of every planet, every moon, every past, present, and future they've ever visited, its pages punctuated with witty comments and clever retorts, patchwork transcripts of their lively banter worthy of an old married couple (complete with a tally of how many times they'd ever been mistaken for one,) all the times the Doctor has ever made her laugh until she's cried, and countless moments of pure brilliance and bravery wherein he's never admired her more. 

A comprehensive chronicle painting well-worn pages filled with lists of everything Amelia Pond adores, from her favorite colors, delicacies, and fragrances to her fondest memories. A journal filled with little leaflets tucked into its various pockets and crevices, adorned with seamless sketchbook renderings dedicated to the unrivaled beauty of her presence, her every feature emblazoned in watercolor, ink, and charcoal, from the soft curve of her lips to the captivating colors of her eyes, connecting freckles on the apples of her cheeks to create brand new constellations in a nighttime sky of his own design. 

He captures it all, preserves their history in between the pages of his secret journal, writes it all down so that he can never, ever give himself the chance to forget her, so that even if she's erased from time, or the inevitable day comes when she decides she's grown too old for her imaginary friend, he'll always have something to remind him of their time together. Not because he's _in love with her_ or anything, but because it's important to keep track of these kinds of things. Records of history, kept out of sheer practicality. That's all it is, he _swears_.

He could, of course, simply tell her how he feels about her, but in spite of his brilliance, the thought of such a simple, wonderful thing had never even occurred to him. Whether it's due to his own stubborn, over-inflated sense of pride, or because he truly doesn't believe that Amy would ever return his affections, isn't entirely certain. It could, possibly, have something to do with the fact that timeless _would-be_ gods and ephemeral creatures don't mix, that even the _notion_ of romantic entanglement between such a complicated coupling is messy at best, and devastatingly heart shattering at worst, and he's in no rush to endure that particular brand of agony again.

Maybe. 

Possibly. 

Although…

Perhaps this time, it could be different—

Nope. _Absolutely not_. He's not going to entertain that train of thought for even a second. Rule number two was established for a _reason_. It could never last. Time Lords and humans are like two puzzle pieces from entirely different boxes. And _this_ human is _particularly_ off-limits, seeing as her heart belongs to someone else. And even if he _could_ pursue her, it's not like he'd have any idea of where to begin. The Doctor is not…to put it _delicately_ …exceptionally gifted in the quality of the spoken word when it involves his amorous intentions. 

Memories from what feels like a lifetime ago flash before his mind, a heartbroken woman standing on a lonely beach in Norway, asking him to say three simple words…

_"Does it need saying?"_

Yes, Doctor. Of _course_ it does. It _always_ does, but you're too much of a stubborn fool to ever admit that.

The Doctor sighs. Some things never change.

This time around, he'd done things a little differently, sought comfort in the calculated composure of written words. Secret words. Words that Amy will never lay eyes upon for as long as she lives. For all of the danger that the Doctor puts himself and his companions in on a daily basis, telling Amy how he feels about her is a much more frightening prospect by far. 

He can run head-first into a wall of fire without so much as a backward glance, and battle Dalek hybrids and Cybermen armies with the best of them…but saying the words out loud, _admitting_ to the irrefutable fact that he'd accidentally fallen in love with his companion… _again_ …is positively terrifying. He prefers, instead, to keep a comfortable distance between them. 

In his quiet admiration, he finds he's learned far more about her than he probably should, and certainly more than her fiancé would be comfortable with. For example, the Doctor can guess the notes of Amy's perfume on any given day, based purely on the colors she's wearing, because he's paid enough attention to know that Amy loves to match color with fragrance.

And the TARDIS, clever old girl that she is, definitely isn't helping to quell the Doctor's _Pond Obsession._ The TARDIS is brilliant and just the tiniest bit evil, and has supplied Amy's wardrobe well, catering to the Doctor's favorite scents in the form of exotic fragrances, taken from the nectar of the finest flowers on Gallifrey, precise replicas of the ones that had been pressed and preserved among the Doctor's most cherished possessions.

And so, whenever Amelia Pond wears the color red, the Doctor has come to notice that her perfume smells like adventure. Like hibiscus petals and passion fruit and strawberries dipped in sugar. Like the rush of tumbling into a field of wildflowers and rainsoaked grass. Like the thrill of running and never looking back. 

Whenever Amy wears the color blue, she smells of comfort and lost recollections, of rainy days and ocean waves, of petrichor, the smell of dust after rain. Like stargazing in a field of fragrant summer flowers on the edge of autumn's first breath, serenaded by a symphony of crickets and birdsong. Like espresso and peppermint tea, wrapped up in the pages of a very old, very good book, tucked away on a dusty, splintering shelf at the back of an ancient library.

The color black brings with it the heady aroma of secrets, of excitement and peril, and the thrill of getting caught doing something you know you're not supposed to. Perfume paired with black ensembles smell like getting lost in the middle of an enchanted forest at twilight. Like dancing in the light of the moon after midnight. Like drifting out to sea chasing the eye of the storm. Whenever Amy wears the color black, it's always accompanied by a symphonic aroma of dark chocolate and cinnamon, with twists of licorice, mahogany, and woodsmoke.

The color violet makes the Doctor a bit giddy, because whenever Amy wears the color violet, she pairs it with the nectar of a particularly potent Gallifreyan aphrodisiac. The color violet is like ambrosia on the lips of a mortal, like the lure of a siren song in an ocean storm. Sometimes, the color violet makes the Doctor forget that she's engaged.

Today, however, Amelia smells like serenity, like innocence, like gentle laughter in the early hours of the morning. Like jasmine, white roses, and lilac blossoms. Like vanilla and honey. Like sugar cookies and gingersnaps. Today, Amelia Pond is a pastel dream in blush and peach, dressed in a camisole lined at the chest and hem with delicate floral lace, and a soft, cream white jumper that hangs loose around her shoulders. Her dark denim skirt just barely covers her long, pale legs, clad in sheer tights and dark brown leather boots. 

Every day, he'll make a game out of guessing what perfume she's wearing, and every day, he'll get it right, confirmed the moment she plunges into his arms and wraps her arms around his neck, and he's allowed the luxury of burying his face into the waves of her gorgeous, wildfire hair. Every day, he'll wait for her to make the first move, and she'll never know that he's been keeping score of every _what if_ moment, every stolen glance, every secret smile, every touch; a collection of strikes and tallies at the back of his journal, from all-encompassing bear hugs to the lightest brush of skin against skin, measured in sparks of adrenaline that blossom across his hearts and light up every nerve ending in his body like a live wire.

He smiles down at her, coiling the locks of her hair around his fingertips, and finally answers, "Couldn't tell you if I wanted to, Pond." 

That, of course, is a downright lie. Today is special, because today, he's taking her to one of the places she's always wanted to visit, and no amount of playful badgering, pouting, or sighing is going to persuade him to reveal the surprise. She's about to argue, lips poised on the edge of something she thinks will be clever enough to outwit him, when a melancholy voice echoes across the distant corridor. 

All at once, the dagger-pointed edges of her solitaire diamond ring dig into back of his neck, a nagging reminder. As if on cue, the two of them step apart as Rory stumbles into the room, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down over his forehead, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. 

"Do we _really_ have to do this?" Rory whines, sniffling miserably as he glares back and forth between the both of them. "I feel like absolute shite. Caught whatever that four-headed centaur thing had, I think."

The Doctor charges forward, circling Amy's fiancé and gently prodding the sensitive skin of Rory's cheekbones with his fingertips. He takes a few steps backward, careful not to accidentally bump into Amy, and says, "No, Rory, I'm afraid you've got nothing quite as exotic as you think you do. It's just the common cold. You should be fine within a few days."

The Doctor smiles, a façade of concern masking his irritation, and adds, "However, I've got a surprise waiting for Amy on the other side of those doors, and I would absolutely despise making her wait any longer than she already has. That being said, you are more than welcome to stay in the sick bay while I take her out. The TARDIS will see to it that you're comfy." 

Rory cocks his head to the side as he surveys the Doctor, a well-deserved glare crinkling the lines around his eyes. He opens his mouth to protest, but Amy interrupts him. 

"Rory," she lilts, lunging forward and lacing her fingers with his, whimsically swinging their arms back and forth so that he stumbles on the spot. The Doctor is torn between a scowl and a giggle at the sight of it.

"Please come with us," she says. "I know you feel awful, but a bit of adventure might do you some good. You've just been lolling about being miserable for the past three days. Come on, Rory, you heard what the Doctor said. He's got a surprise for us."

_Us_. Of course. Amy thinks it's a surprise for the _both of them_.

Amy curls into her fiancé's side, pleading with her best pout, and the Doctor can't help but think of how unfair it is that one person can be so sensationally gorgeous and persuasive all at once. 

After a few seconds of melodramatic badgering, Rory rolls his eyes and gives Amy a curt nod that sends her into a flurry of excited bouncing. The Doctor chuckles lightly, catching the look of impatience that flashes across Amy's face as he carefully sets the coordinates. After what seems like ages, the TARDIS _vworps_ to a proper halt, and the Doctor unlocks the doors, revealing one of the most beautiful sights that Amy has ever seen.


	2. Act Two

**• Act Two •**

 

It's the sound of his name whispered so sweetly against his ear that all but melts him from the inside out. Amy throws her arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug so tight he nearly suffocates. It wouldn't be the worst way to die, the Doctor muses, as Amy hugs him impossibly tighter. He can feel her laughter vibrating against his ribcage, filling him with a strange tickling sensation that radiates from the tips of his toes to the roots of his disheveled dark brown hair, and it's all he can do to keep from kissing her senseless. An exasperated sigh jolts him back into reality, and he begrudgingly lets her go, offering Rory an apologetic smile.

The three of them step out of the TARDIS and onto a cobbled lane, encrusted with rounded stones and glittering flecks of crystal quartz. Square-cut cafés with sweet cinnamon and caramel aromas, verdant gardens with a collection of colorful flora, and fashion shops with the finest fabrics and jewels line the lanes like elegant dollhouses. The crowded streets are alive with horse-drawn carriages, men in black, gray, and midnight blue overcoats, sporting top hats and walking sticks, and women swathed in taffeta dresses and sun hats, carrying silken purses and parasols. Silhouettes of stone-clad chateaus and maisonettes, embellished with mansard rooftops and wrought-iron staircases are just visible as the rue unravels in the distance.

The Doctor glances over at Amy, delighted by the look of wonder that dances in her eyes. Her lips are parted ever so slightly, on the verge of a smile that got lost somewhere between bliss and disbelief. The Doctor waltzes over to a corner flower shop, slips the vendor an amount far higher than that of the asking price, and interrupts Amy's view with a handsome bouquet of red and white roses. Her eyes grow impossibly wider, and her lips curve into a radiant smile.

"Thank you," she whispers, altogether forgetting her despondent fiancé, who's been dawdling a few paces behind them the entire time. 

The Doctor dances into the cobbled street, his arms spread like magnificent wings as he gestures enthusiastically to the historical beauty surrounding them. Grinning like a madman, he says, "Paris! The city of romance, of music and art! Of fashion and, well, positively _brilliant_ baking. The year is 1902, and if I'm not mistaken, it's early autumn. Look around you, it's the Bohemian Revolution in full stride, celebrating freedom, beauty, truth, and—" 

The Doctor chokes on his words. Frozen, he watches as Rory tickles Amy's nose with the rose petals, his stomach twisting as she draws him in for a truly spectacular kiss.

"Love," he sighs, swallowing a grimace. Amy pulls away from her fiancé, giggling breathlessly, and gives the Doctor a sheepish smile. Without warning, she reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers in between his, and escorts her boys along the cobbled path. The Doctor carries on, stifling the excitement that builds in his chest at the feeling of Amy's hand entwined with his own. As the evening sky deepens from brushstrokes of grapefruit and citrus to a cloudy, midnight blue, the trio come across another set of buildings, buried deep within the heart of the city. 

Extravagant mansions with spiraling towers are scattered miles apart from one another, winding down the promenade and disappearing into the distant fog. Just across the road lies a building unlike all others. Its elongated, palace-like body stretches to the edges of the sidewalk, an array of miniature towers, turrets, and spires adorning its rooftops. A grand, scarlet windmill is situated at the front of the building, alight with flashing red and white letters that read _Moulin Rouge_ in an elegant scrawl. Amy stops in her tracks and stares up at the building, the reflection of the flickering lights dancing in her eyes.

"Ah, yes. The Moulin Rouge," the Doctor prompts. "It means, quite literally, the red windmill, but the TARDIS thought it might be distasteful to translate it."

"What is it, exactly?" Amy asks, eyes wide with wonder.

"Well, it's a sort of performance arena for cabaret…" the Doctor mumbles, suddenly flustered.

"It's a whorehouse," Rory blurts out, punctuating his bluntness with an obnoxious string of sniffles.

"Alright, Rory, no need to be so rude," the Doctor scoffs.

"You've taken us to a whorehouse?" Amy asks, arching an eyebrow.

"No, no, no, it's…well, all right, it _was_ , at one point in time, the sort of place where men and women danced about in can-can costumes, but it's recently been converted into a theatre. The owner, Harold Ziddler, sold the rights to this wealthy duke, who has since taken ill and died of a rather mysterious virus…oh, but don't take pity, he was a terrible man. Anyway, the rights are back in Monsieur Ziddler's name, and the Moulin Rouge has since remained a theatre. By the looks of it, it's been expanded considerably over the past couple of years to include a hotel."

"It's _gorgeous_ ," Amy says, eyes lighting up at his explanation. "Can we go inside?"

"It's closed this time of year to tourists, I'm afraid," the Doctor replies, shaking his head sadly. 

"Oh, come on, you've got to have _some_ way around all of that," Amy scoffs, her smile faltering as she clings to the Doctor's arm and fixes him with a positively sinful pout. 

"Of course I do, Pond," the Doctor replies with a cheeky smile. "I haven't yet met a _keep out_ sign that's been able to best me."

He waves his psychic paper in front of her, and adds, "According to this transcript, the three of us are aspiring actors, eager to audition for the theatre's newest upcoming show."

"And what do you propose we do if one of us _actually_ gets cast?" Rory asks gruffly, ever-concerned with the morality of it all.

"Oh, come now, Rory. What are the odds of that?" the Doctor replies jovially, offering Amy a highly exaggerated mischievous wink as he pulls out his sonic screwdriver and begins picking the lock on the gated entrance. 

Amy giggles, wrestling the Doctor into another shameless hug, while Rory shrugs his hooded sweatshirt so far down over his forehead until he's just a walking nose in jeans and a jumper, and reluctantly follows them through the gilded gateway. 

 

**• • •**

 

It's half past midnight, and Amy Pond is _drunk_.

"I'm _fine_ ," she insists, thrusting her empty champagne glass toward the Doctor's outstretched hand, and nearly knocking the emerald tinted bottle out of his grasp in her haste. She giggles, clapping a hand over her mouth as she mumbles out a half-hearted, "Whoops!"

"That's enough celebrating for tonight, Pond," the Doctor chides with an affectionate smile, taking her glass out of her hands and placing it on his bedside table. She fixes him with a dramatic pout as she collapses back onto the springy mattress of his four-poster bed, hair sprawled out across the navy blue duvet like a thousand tiny crimson rivers.

Everyone involved in the production had been given their own room in the newly renovated hotel, preferring to keep the actors and set designers on the premises as they work tirelessly over the next few weeks to produce this spectacular new show.

"You'd be celebrating too if you'd been given the _lead role_ in a fabulous Parisian play," she hiccups, radiant smile evident all the same.

"Oh wait, you _have_ ," she exclaims, throwing her arms into the air in a triumphant cheer. The Doctor sets his own glass down next to hers, coasters be damned, and falls back against the mattress with a heavy thud, a small smile spreading across his face at the sound of Amy's laughter as she's bounced up half an inch from the impact.

"I still can't _believe_ we got the lead roles," she says, turning to face him as her laughter fades into breathless giggles. Her eyes are bright, wide, and filled with wonder, and the Doctor can't help but think that she has never looked more beautiful than she does in this moment.

They're so close, lying on their backs with their heads turned to face one another, shoulders pressed together, fingertips ghosting over each other's palms, that he can practically _taste_ the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries on her lips. It takes everything in him not to close the infinitesimal space left between them and kiss her senseless. 

And the fact that he nearly had, _twice_ now, is enough to make him question just how strong Toulouse's complimentary champagne actually _is_ , and whether _he'd_ had more than perhaps he should have. Amy giggles softly again, and a lock of hair falls into her eyes. His fingertips twitch with the urge to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear, which sends a fresh wave of panic through his chest. 

He needs a distraction, desperately.

"Speaking of the lead _villain_ ," the Doctor says with a sardonic smirk. "Where _is_ Rory?"

Amy huffs out a frustrated sigh.

"Asleep in our room," she grouses, rolling her eyes. "Says he's still feeling sick and miserable, and reckons _that's_ why he wasn't given any of the singing roles. He's not too keen on having to play the Duke."

"I can't honestly blame him," the Doctor sighs. "If the stories are true, his real-life counterpart was without a doubt one of the worst human beings to ever walk this planet."

"Do you really think the rumors are true?" Amy prompts, rolling over onto her side and cradling her chin in the palms of her hands, staring up at the Doctor intently.

"I've already read through the script twice," she says. "I love the plot _so much_. It's so captivating and tragic and romantic. A penniless writer falls in love with a beautiful courtesan and they have to hide their love affair from an investor who wants to buy her affections exclusively. Did all of that really happen, right here in this very building?" 

The Doctor thinks back to the dark-haired man with the vacant expression who'd presided over their auditions earlier that day. He knew that look. He'd _lived_ that look. That was the look of a man who'd suffered the loss of the greatest love of his life. Perhaps that was why the Doctor had been so perfectly suited to the role.

"Yes, I believe so," he replies softly.

"That's so unbelievably sad," Amy breathes, her voice just barely above a whisper. "I can't even _imagine_ what it must be like for the author to have to come back here after all this time, to relive all of those moments of wonder and pain and misery."

"I think it's honorable," the Doctor replies, suddenly quite uncomfortably aware of the edges of his little leather-bound journal digging into his ribcage from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. "He wanted to tell their story."

Amy hums thoughtfully.

"We're all stories in the end," she muses, plucking the words from the deepest grotto of her memories as she tilts her head to the side and gives the Doctor an affectionate smile, delighting in the startled blush that swims across the curves of his cheekbones. "Just make sure it's a good one, eh?"

With a contented sigh, Amy closes the distance between them, the champagne still coursing through her veins making her bold enough to rest her head on the Doctor's chest. He startles for a moment, but then immediately uncoils, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her close, his chin nuzzling into the top of her head. She snakes an arm around his chest, curling her scarlet-painted fingernails into his sides, right where she knows he's most ticklish. The Doctor jumps ever so slightly, earning an amused chuckle from Amy as she buries her face into his tweed-clad chest and lets the thrum of his four-beat binary hearts lull her to sleep.

"Goodnight, Christian," Amy sighs softly, snuggling even closer against him.

"Goodnight, Satine," the Doctor whispers back to her, pressing his lips to the top of her forehead, before dozing off in a blissful slumber of his own.


	3. Act Three

**• Act Three •**

 

It had been an absolute _whirlwind_ of a first month. With very little time to set the stage, tailor the costumes, synchronize the choreography, and rehearse their hearts out from sunrise to sunset for a one-night-only live performance of the greatest love story ever told, there was quite a bit of work to be done, and not a moment to lose. 

And while the Doctor and Rory find themselves coming away from every rehearsal feeling as though they've been run ragged, Amelia Pond is positively _thriving_. For the Doctor, it is truly a magnificent sight to behold.

Amelia takes to the stage like a wildfire in a wooded forest, swathed in elaborate costumes spun from the finest silk, lace, and jewels. To the Doctor, Amy _herself_ is a sparkling diamond, and he finds himself falling deeper in love with her every day, enamored by how beautifully, how passionately, how poetically she delivers her performance. When she sings, he hears a symphony. When she smiles, he feels as though he's been bathed in sunlight. When she laughs, his whole world is set ablaze.

And it's fine, absolutely _fine_ , for the Doctor to think of his companion in such grandiose, sickly sweet terms, because in this production, they are lovers, and he is merely committing to the role. Lost in the world of glamour and theatrical magic, cloaked in the comfortable illusion of a scripted performance, the Doctor finds no fault in giving it his all, singing his hearts out as the two of them serenade one another in lyrical harmony, locking eyes and whispering carefully crafted dulcet affections whenever her villainous pursuer's back is turned. 

Because it's all just pretend. It's all just for show. The two of them are simply actors hired to play a role, and nothing more. None of it matters. None of it _means_ _anything_.

After all, what does it matter if the Doctor continues to feel that same old spark of adrenaline course through his veins after the director has called _cut!_ and Amy comes bounding toward him, plunging into his arms for a congratulatory hug, giggling and flailing as she recounts her favorite parts of the day and compliments him on his performance? And if it feels like he's just swallowed acid and his hearts have plummeted into the pit of his stomach every time she bids him goodnight and is lead away by a surly-looking Rory…well, what of it?

It should be of very little consequence, surely, that his hands begin to tremble as he lifts a gently closed fist to rap against her bedroom door, his hearts in his throat as he lures her out of the company of her slumbering fiancé to join him on midnight tours of the Moulin Rouge night after endless night, waxing poetic over its rich history and exquisite architecture in hushed tones as they band together in their never-ending quest to find the infamous Elephant Love Room.

And what difference should it make, in the grand scheme of things, if the Doctor had already felt all of the above for his companion well before they'd ever been cast as these star-crossed characters?

_It's nothing._

_It's nothing._

_It's just an infatuation._

At least, that's what he tells himself as he perches behind a set of thick crimson curtains at the back of the stage, absentmindedly twirling a pair of antique silver cufflinks adorning his tuxedo costume from the opening dance sequence they'd just been practicing, and watches, positively transfixed, as Amy is helped out of an elaborate strawberry gown by a team of costume designers and makeup artists. They flitter around her like fireflies drawn to starlight, heads thrown back in laughter as Amy chats away animatedly, making a friend out of every single one of them.

The moment the crowd parts, Amy's eyes instantly lock onto his, and the Doctor feels like he's just swallowed a lemon. Her lips give the slightest little upturn, as though she _knows_ she's just caught him staring. She's dressed in a simple white bathrobe that barely brushes the tops of her knees, hints of a cream-colored charmeuse hem dancing just beneath the surface like the curls of an ocean wave as it kisses the shore. He offers her a sheepish smile, the tips of his ears burning scarlet as he fumbles with the cufflinks. Nerves get the better of him, and in his haste to redirect his attention to literally _anything else_ , the tiny cufflinks go flying across the stage, and scatter out of sight.

The Doctor lets out a soft gasp before frantically trailing after them, weaving in and out of the crowd of makeup, costume, and set design crew, backup dancers and choral singers, none of whom seem to give the slightest damn about his predicament, all but ignoring his panicked queries as he asks if anyone's seen a small bit of silver bounce across the hardwood floor. As he nears the very back of the stage, he collides quite suddenly with a sturdy wall of muscle and loose-fitting fabric, apologizing profusely as he bends down to collect his (now slightly crushed) top hat, before freezing and falling silent as he realizes exactly _who_ he's just bumped into.

"You'll want to be a bit more careful with these," the author says quietly, opening his palms and depositing a pair of antique silver cufflinks into the Doctor's outstretched hands. He's about the same height as the Doctor, with tousled, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that have long since lost their spark. The two men appraise one another for a moment, one forever wistful for the past, one forever chasing an ephemeral future, eyes narrowing in scrutiny before widening in surprise as they recognize the same brand of enduring agony in one another that they'll spend a lifetime (or perhaps several lifetimes) harboring inside their hearts. Kindred spirits in heartache and misery. 

"I am so deeply sorry for your loss," The Doctor says softly, his voice just barely above a whisper. A flurry of warring emotions dance across Christian's eyes, brows furrowed in equal parts anger and confusion, as though he wants nothing more than to storm away and withdraw back into the shadows, to keep what little is left of the secrets he'd shared with his long lost love to himself, away from the prying public. 

It's only been a few years since Satine's passing, but Christian looks as though he's aged about ten. Exhausted, vexed, defensive, and defeated, Christian looks as though he's about to lash out, a thousand retorts on the tip of his tongue, spurred on by an aching bitterness that had sunk its claws deep into his soul after having to recount the details of his lover's death over and over again. He'd never wanted any of the attention from the press, never deserved to relive the trauma of losing her. But with her last, dying breath, she'd made him _promise_ that he would tell their story, and he'd wanted nothing more than to honor her.

Christian meets the Doctor's eyes, searching him for an ulterior motive, and is relieved to find no trace of macabre curiosity, only genuine empathy. He's not used to condolences from complete strangers that aren't immediately followed by a surge of nosy questions. But this man clearly isn't like any of the others. He feels, at the very least, a rush of hope in having helped cast the right person for the role. His features soften, eyes brimming with tears as he gives the Doctor a curt nod.

"Just…" he says softly, his voice breaking ever so slightly as he swallows back a wave of sorrow. "Just do our story justice, will you?"

The Doctor grasps Christian's hands in his own, eyes locked to his as he replies, "Of course we will. I promise."

With a polite, cursory nod, Christian gently twists out of the Doctor's embrace and disappears behind the velvet curtains, apparently too overcome to stay and watch the next scene play out. And when the director calls for the Doctor and Amelia to come to the front of the stage, he's fairly certain he understands _why_.

 

**• • •**

 

"Alright everyone, all eyes on me! Don't make me ask twice," the director calls out across the stage, speaking into an old-fashioned megaphone to ensure that his voice carries across the expansive stage.

"For the remainder of today's dress rehearsal, we'll be running through the second half of the _Come What May_ duet and dance sequence, so it's all hands on deck. As you should all remember, seeing as we only _just_ ran through it yesterday, the first half encompasses Christian and Satine's iconic duet where they secretly serenade one another behind the Duke's back with this quintessential love song, whilst rehearsing for their own production, _Spectacular Spectacular_. The second half will comprise the romantic, dream-like dance sequence, set in far more intimate environs, wherein a chorus takes over and finishes out the song as we fade to black, with Christian and Satine at the forefront, lovingly clinging to one another in the throes of their illicit affair."

The Doctor pauses mid-stride as he makes his way back to the front of the stage, certain he couldn't _possibly_ have heard the director clearly over the cacophony of the bustling crowd. Finally, he spots Amy amidst the sea of cast and crew, and makes a beeline directly for her.

"So," the director continues, flipping through his heavily marked-up copy of the script. "Set design, I'll need intermittent backdrop changes from romantic Parisian cityscapes to rolling, floral fields. Lighting will be a soft, muted mix of blush and gold, so please take note and adjust accordingly. Dancers, to your assigned markers. Chorus and orchestra, off to either side of the stage. Your instruments should be warmed up and in tune by now. I don't want to hear any off-key warbling from the woodwinds or the altos again."

The Doctor sidles up next to Amy, offering her a mischievous wink and an impish smile in an attempt to win back some of his dignity, and get things back to their normal, playfully teasing dynamic. His anxiety flares up anew, however, when, in lieu of the amused eye roll and gentle punch to the shoulder he'd been expecting, Amy's eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows rising so high they practically straddle her hairline. She gives him a look that's equal parts scandalized and amused, and just as he's about to ask her what the hell he could have possibly done that's shocked her so (a thousand different excuses as to _why_ he'd been caught staring at her like a lovesick puppy dog just moments before race through his mind at an alarming rate) the director's shrill, booming voice sounds off yet again.

"Doctor! Pond!" he shouts, making the both of them jump. "I'll need you two front and center, stripped down to your bare essentials so the costume crew can drape the silk and linen bed sheets around your entwined bodies."

The Doctor splutters, not daring to believe what he'd just heard.

"Strip…stripped down?" he asks feebly, his throat constricting painfully around the words.

"Is this another colloquial thing?" the director sighs impatiently, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Let me try to rephrase it in terms _someone of your culture_ will understand. I need you both to undress. Clothes _off_. Down to your skivvies. Very nearly naked. Am I making sense now, Mr.… _Doctor_ , is it?"

He punctuates those last few words with sneering derision, and the Doctor feels his temper rise. He's only been properly paying attention to the man for less than a minute, and already he's exhausted by him.

"Yes, I understood what you meant," the Doctor replies as calmly as he can manage, given the state of things. "It's just…are you quite certain that's…entirely _necessary_? Being…erm…being quite so _naked_ this early on? Surely, there must be other scenes that we could—"

"Oh, I'm _sorry_ ," the director interjects, his voice laced with a particularly venomous brand of sarcasm. "I was under the impression that I had hired _competent_ actors. Are you bashful schoolchildren, or are you mature, moderately-talented artists capable of taking your roles seriously? Pity, I would hate to have to recast after all the work you've already put in."

The Doctor's eyes grow wide, a fresh wave of panic winding its way down his spine as though he'd just swallowed ice. He knows how much being here in Paris and performing in this play means to Amy. He wouldn't want to do anything to risk jeopardizing this for her, complicated mess of feelings be damned.

"No, of course. You're absolutely right. Sorry," the Doctor replies solemnly, cursing his own impetuousness and hubris for not paying more attention, for thinking he could rely on quick wit and charm to wing his way through rehearsals, for not reading through the entirety of the script as meticulously as Amy had. Amy, who knows the play by heart, and doesn't seem the slightest bit surprised by what they'd just been asked to do…though the Doctor _swears_ he can make out the barest hint of pink kissing the curves of her cheekbones. Though, perhaps that's just mood lighting and wishful thinking.

The two of them stand there in front of one another, just barely a few feet apart, twin blushes alight beneath their every pulse point as they ever so slowly let their clothes fall to the floor. As the warmth and modest comfort of the suit jacket, trousers, and button-down shirt leave his skin, the Doctor shivers, left standing in nothing more than a pair of plain white undergarments. But the sight before him quickly warms his skin like a wave of fire, igniting his blush anew.

Underneath her plushy white bathrobe, Amy is swathed in a gown made of silken champagne, its gossamer straps falling loosely around her shoulders, collarbones painted with a smattering of rose gold shimmer that catches in the light and dances across the surface of her skin like sunshine across the facets of a diamond. The dress is like liquid gold as it spills over her figure, hugging her every curve and leaving so little to the imagination that it might as well be a second skin. The Doctor swallows thickly as Amy stares up at him, curious hazel eyes roving the length of his figure with an approving sort of smile. Meanwhile, he's trying _desperately_ to keep his gaze from wandering into dangerous territory, hearts thrumming so violently against his ribcage it feels as though one of them is lodged in his throat. 

In the next instant, the crew surrounds them, wrapping king-sized layers of luxurious linen and lavish silk around the pair of them until they're plunged into a sea of soft, crisp white, like a flurry of falling snow, winding them closer and closer until they're pressed right up against one another, the delicate swell of her barely-clad breasts crushed against the soft, muscular panes of his chest. A spectacular symphony of lively strings and melancholy piano bursts into life as an angelic chorus erupts into song all around them, serenading them in perfect synchronicity:

 

_Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place_

_Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace_

_Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste_

_It all revolves around you_

 

The Doctor chances a look into Amy's eyes, and finds nothing short of wonder there, her smile soft, warm, and genuine as she stares back up at him. With a jolt, he realizes he's never been this close to her before, that the two of them have never been this _still_ in each other's company. Always on the run, always chasing after the next big adventure, always having to pull away far too soon after being wrapped in the intoxicating embrace of one of Amy's magnificent hugs. 

He finds himself zeroing in on all of these missed little details, warring with himself over the exact shade of rose that colors her lips, whether there's more flecks of hazel or olive in the irises of her eyes, counting the freckles that dapple the bridge of her nose. He's never been this close to her; quite possibly, he'll never have the chance to be this close to her ever again, so he wants to make it count, wants to remember _everything_.

"Don't be afraid to _really_ commit to the romance of the moment," the director's grating voice rings out across the performance hall yet again, effectively breaking the spell. "Christian, wrap your arms around her waist. Satine, rest your head against his shoulder. For the love of God, do _something_ other than just standing there staring at each other. You're deeply in love, so _act_ like it!"

Amy blinks rapidly, eyes widening in exasperation like she's a thousand percent _done_ with the director's patronizing commands. The sight of Amy's signature scowl settles the Doctor's nerves considerably, shoulders bouncing as he attempts to hold back a bout of laughter. An amused smirk tugs at the corners of her lips in spite of herself, and then she's giggling along with him as he leans forward to whisper a few choice insults and ill-faming rumors he'd made up on the spot about their charming director. Luckily for them, a quartet of cellos sounds off at exactly the right moment, effectively masking their barrage of jokes and jabs from prying ears. As far as the director knows, they're doing exactly as they were told.

"So, um…" Amy says as her laughter subsides, biting her lower lip and eyeing him nervously. "I'm pretty sure this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me."

The Doctor pales, eyes wide as he struggles to keep composure.

"Right," he replies, swallowing thickly and spluttering as a series of stalling tactics masquerading as words come tumbling out of his mouth. "Yes, of course. Absolutely. Marvelous idea, that. Suppose I should just…erm…"

Tentatively, as though he's asking for permission, the Doctor wraps his arms around her, one hand sprawled across the delicate skin at the small of her back, the other coming to rest at the bundle of silk and linen pooled around her waist. Instinctively, Amy laces her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead against his and looking up into his eyes, breath held aloft as she waits for him to make the first move. He leans forward to place a soft, sweet kiss to the top of her forehead, and Amy's eyes flutter closed at the familiar contact, reveling in the intimate simplicity of their forbidden tradition. The hand at her waist winds its way up the length of her torso, fingers threading through her hair as he gently brushes a loose lock behind her ear. He traces the curves of her cheekbones with his fingertips, cradling her face in the palm of his hand, before gently tilting her chin up to meet him. 

It's the anticipation of it all that nearly kills him, crushing and all-consuming as it steals his breath from his lungs, plunging him to the deepest depths of the sea with no hope of ever breaching the surface, the crash of his hearts against his ribcage like ocean waves in a tempestuous storm. But then his lips press ever so softly against the delicate curve of hers, and he's kissing her, _finally_ kissing her, and it's like taking that very first breath of fresh air just seconds after you'd resigned yourself to drowning.

It's nothing at all like the first kiss they'd shared in Amy's bedroom all those lifetimes ago; messy and complicated, born of raw emotion and wish-fulfilling fantasy of a childhood crush, a reckless whim to celebrate the simple joy of being alive, of surviving an ancient burial ground plagued by angels of death a thousand light years from her own time. Back then, the Doctor hadn't reciprocated, far too caught up in vague concepts of biological incompatibility and the logistics of a long-term dalliance. Or at least, he had _tried_ not to reciprocate, cursing his traitorous body for acting of its own volition for those first few seconds when he'd all but melted into her embrace. After all, he'd had absolutely no intention of taking advantage of her while she was in such a conflicted state. She wasn't in her right mind, couldn't _possibly_ know what she wanted. Must be _mad_ if she thought what she'd truly wanted was _him._

Up until now, the Doctor had always thought that _that kiss_ would be the only one they ever got to share, haunting his restless, sleepless nights until his dying day, the ghost of her lips pressed against his own in heated fervor as she backed him up against the TARDIS doors, every inch of her body curling into his like perfectly matched puzzle pieces in an intricate design. 

How very wrong he'd been.

This kiss is _everything_ , better than the first in every way imaginable, gentle and slow, tentative and exploratory, passionate and lingering and altogether life-changing as the soft glow of blush and gold lights dance around them like a summer sunset, enveloped in a symphony of timeless love forever captured in lyrical harmony. Given a second chance at something he never even _dreamed_ he'd be allowed, the Doctor wastes no time in making certain it's absolutely perfect, down to the very last detail. 

The Doctor pulls away, delighting in the rueful whine that escapes Amy's lips at the loss of contact, and buries his face into the curve of her neck, into the endless sea of fire that is her hair, and breathes her in. It's difficult for him to play his little guessing game now, he muses, as she's hardly wearing anything. She just smells like… _Amy_. Like hints of ginger and cinnamon spice, fragrant florals, and sweet succulent summer fruits all rolled together into one enchanting elixir. Swirling around him like smoke, like incense, leaving him dizzy and breathless as Amy peppers kisses across his neck and shoulders.

The rest of the world falls away, and suddenly, they're no longer acting. Hearts beat wild beneath their chests, every inch of her pressed against him in perfect tandem as the Doctor traces constellations in freckles dusted across her collarbones like brown sugar, painting poetry across the canvas of her chest with skillful twists and twirls of his tongue. The Doctor revels in the sinful moan that escapes her lips as he does so, a wicked wave of pleasure rocketing through his veins and lighting up every nerve ending in his body like a live wire, before Amy captures him in another fervent kiss.

He pours everything, _everything_ into this kiss; his hearts, his soul, every whim and fantasy he'd kept locked in the darkest confines of his mind, all the broken pieces of himself that he could never offer her, all the sweet sincerities he could never say aloud, a collection of unspoken promises spilling from his lips like a lovelorn confession.

 

_And there's no mountain too high, no river too wide_

_Sing out this song, and I'll be there by your side_

_Storm clouds may gather and stars may collide_

_But I'll love you until the end of time, come what may_

 

A series of agitated coughs and dramatic throat clearing rips them quite violently out of their reverie. Startled, the two of them break apart and come up for air, only to find a surly-looking Rory glaring back and forth between the pair of them.

"Um…they've called cut a total of _five times_ now," he says waspishly, waving his hands in the air to showcase the throng of crew members packing up the scenery and switching off the lighting, while a cluster of cast members, choral singers, and dancers hurriedly whisk past them on their way to the after party.

With a softly startled _oh_ , Amy realizes she's still got her arms laced around the Doctor's neck, fingers threaded through the tousled locks of his hair, and quickly moves to disentangle herself. Heart and mind lagging to catch up with the mood of the moment, the Doctor reluctantly unlocks his arms from around Amy's waist and lets her go. Flustered and shamefaced, Amy steps away from him, forcing a cheerful smile as she accepts the fluffy white bathrobe Rory's been holding out for her.

The realization that he's still just standing there, dumbfounded and practically starkers in front of the woman he's not allowed to love and her disgruntled, increasingly jealous fiancé, finally comes crashing down around him. In his haste to put as much distance as inhumanly possible between himself, his inane emotions, and this exceedingly uncomfortable situation, the Doctor begins unceremoniously wrapping himself up in the overlarge linens, and shuffles off to a far corner of the room, desperate not to let either of them catch a glimpse of the startling effect that incredible kiss has had on his body. 

Unfortunately, the theatre hall magnifies and echoes even the mousiest of voices, so hard as he tries (which is to say, _not at all_ ,) he can't help but overhear snippets of their conversation. Busying himself with pretending to find a more suitable costume to change into, the Doctor steals covert glances out of the corner of his eye, his stomach in knots as he watches Rory reach across the space between them and gently tuck a loose lock of Amy's hair behind her ear.

"You know how it is," Rory says around a nervous chuckle. "I just don't like other people touching my things."

Unbidden, malevolent rage erupts like a feral monster inside the Doctor's chest. He's about to march forward, all pretenses dropped, and defend Amy to the nines, when—

"It's called _acting_ , Rory," Amy snarls, recoiling from his touch. "It doesn't _mean_ anything, it's just for the play."

And the Doctor knows, oh how he _knows_ that she's absolutely right, but the brutal bluntness of those words still sting him all the same.

"And since when am I a _thing_ to be _owned_?" she ripostes, hair whipping around her shoulders like a ring of fire as she rounds on Rory.

Despite the troubling tension of the moment, a swell of pride flares up in the Doctor's chest as he admires the venerable ferocity of his best friend, like a lioness coming in for the kill.

"No! No, I didn't…that's not what I…" Rory splutters, heaving a frustrated sigh as he squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"That's _literally_ one of my lines, Amy," he tries desperately to explain. "Something the Duke says. I would _never_ presume to—"

To the Doctor's immense surprise, Amy giggles, her expression softening to one of pure delight as she playfully punches Rory on the shoulder.

"I know, I'm just messing with you," she laughs, flashing him a teasing smile. "I know every line by heart. Read it through like fifty times now, remember?"

"Yeah," Rory laughs nervously, visibly deflating. "Seems that's all you do anymore. I don't think I've seen you sleep a wink since we got here."

The spiteful monster prowling in the depths of the Doctor's heart gives a victorious roar as a petty, traitorous voice in the back of his mind chants, _that's because she's been out with me every night._

"But that's part of why I love you so much," Rory sighs, snaking his arms around Amy's waist and pulling her close. "You're so passionate, so _dedicated_ when you're enthralled with a project. You sing like a goddess and you act with such conviction that I could almost believe you truly _are_ Satine."

"You've…well, _both_ of you, really…have truly committed to these roles. The chemistry between you two is undeniable. I mean, that kiss was… _something_ ," Rory trails off awkwardly, an indescribable pain flashing across his eyes.

"You really go all out when you're playing a role," he finishes with a half-hearted attempt at feigning indifference. "I can't honestly remember a time where you've ever kissed _me_ like that." 

He means it to be playful, an offhand remark made in jest, but there's no mistaking the sharp edge of jealousy that tinges his tone, years' worth of unspoken, unresolved bitterness and resentment settling between them like a thick cloud of smoke.

"Oh, don't be silly. Of course I have," Amy admonishes around an anxious bout of laughter, before pulling him down by the collar of his shirt and crushing his lips against hers. It's messy and indelicate and all manner of awkward, but Rory doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, moving in closer to scoop her into a hug and nuzzle his nose into the curve of her neck. 

Chin tucked into the crook of Rory's shoulder, Amy's eyes immediately lock onto the Doctor's, effectively catching him in the act of yet another lingering glance for the second time that day. But this time, there's no teasing smirk or playful sparkle in her eye. Instead, she looks contemplative, crestfallen, lips twisting into an unmistakable frown as her brows furrow in concentration, studying him like he's a riddle she can't quite solve.

But then Rory withdraws, intent upon posing his invitation to treat her to a romantic dinner in town face to face, and Amy quickly rearranges her features into a dazzling smile. The Doctor catches the tail end of her reply, an overly cheerful _I'd love to!_ and watches, heart clenching miserably in his chest, as she slips her hand in Rory's and leads him out the door, sneaking glances over her shoulder as she goes.


	4. Act Four

**• Act Four •**

 

It's nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, and Amelia Pond can't sleep. Every restless toss and turn is met with an angry groan from her half-awake fiancé, all bundled up beside her in a duvet cocoon to ward off the autumn chill. Fingertips ghost over her own lips, and a shiver runs down her spine at the thought of how close he'd been to her, just hours before. She shakes her head as if to clear it, willing herself to think of literally _anything_ else. 

At this rate, there's no way she's going to make it through the night. She _has_ to leave, _has_ to escape. If she stays here any longer, if she risks going to sleep and succumbing to her traitorous dreams, there's no way to know what she might let slip in such a vulnerable state, and Rory can't _ever_ find out.

She has half a mind to brave the bustling streets of a city that never sleeps, unlock the TARDIS doors, and find her way to her favorite place in the whole universe. Closing her eyes, she can almost picture the way the lights dance across the surface of the water, igniting the room in an otherworldly, ethereal glow as brilliant hues of cerulean, mint, and wisteria illuminate every secret passageway, every revolving bookshelf and hideaway reading nook of the wondrous, maze-like TARDIS library.

Amy frowns and huffs out a frustrated sigh as the idyllic vision warps and meshes with a collection of unrelated thoughts, worries, and memories, inviting yet another ill-tempered grumble from the pile of blankets and flailing limbs beside her. It's hardly the same in her imagination as it is in person, due in no small part to the company her happy place so often tends to keep…

Just as she'd resigned herself to another dull, torturous evening of lying perfectly still with her eyes wide open and her heart and mind on overdrive, she hears the gentle four-beat rhythm of the Doctor's signature knock against her bedroom door, and immediately bounds out of bed, suppressing a manic giggle and smiling to herself as she remembers all the times she'd teased him for _literally_ wearing his heart on his sleeve. 

She flings the door open with a little more enthusiasm than she'd meant to, clapping a hand over her mouth and wincing at the resulting crash. The both of them watch in silent abject horror, waiting on baited breath as Rory startles awake, blinks rapidly at the pair of them, and then heaves a half-hearted shrug, rolling over with an aggravated grunt. The Doctor's expression is a mirror image of her own, eyes wide with fear, lips pressed together in a tight line to keep himself from bursting out laughing. He presses a finger to his lips, before gripping her by the shoulders and tugging her out into the hallway.

"Doctor, what are you—" she starts, breathless as the sudden motion collides their torsos together, palms splayed against the fabric of his tweed jacket and button-down shirt to steady herself in the _almost_ fall.

"I've found it," he says simply, offering no further explanation. It takes her a moment to register what he'd meant.

"Found _what_ , exactly…wait, _really_?!"

This revelation sends her into a delighted flurry of flailing and giggling, and in spite of his insistence on keeping quiet, the Doctor can't help but join in. It's like finding those fish-alien-vampires in Venice all over again. A sudden creak of floorboards on the level below knocks him back into reality, though, and he quickly resumes composure.

"Yes, I have. Now hush up, and come along, Pond," he whispers, flashing her a cheeky smirk, and earning himself a playful punch to the shoulder. He does his absolute damnedest to ignore the little shiver that winds its way down his spine as he offers Amy his hand and she immediately laces her fingers in between his own, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet as she waits for him to lead the way.

 

**• • •**

 

In a wild, overgrown garden at the heart of the Moulin Rouge, stands a magnificent, statuesque elephant encrusted with glittering jewels, intricate floral artwork in vibrant shades of red and yellow painted onto its trunk and ears, a diadem of lustrous gold twisted into ornate latticework atop its head. A belvedere built for two sits atop the elephant's back, while twin staircases guarded by gilded golden balustrades curve around either side of its head, marrying the crown of the spectacular structure with the base of its heart-shaped balcony that overlooks the iconic red windmill, and leads into the luxurious boudoir hidden away within its core.

The room itself is in near flawless condition, perfectly preserved as though suspended in time, the only piece of architecture that hadn't been touched in the renovation. Though a thick layer of dust had settled over the furniture like freshly-fallen snow, the room still holds all of its charming, decadent splendor, filled to the brim with all manner of fine lace and lavish silk, its rich scarlet painted walls illuminated in fiery, autumn hues by the soft, golden glow of elegant chandeliers embellished with teardrop rubies and rose quartz. 

A gorgeous king-sized bed dwells in a semi-private alcove at the center of the circular room, adorned with a plush collection of throw pillows and cozy comforters, and framed by a grand bay window encased in the same swirling gold filigree as the elephant's crown. The effect is dazzling, to be sure, but it's nothing compared to the wide-eyed look of wonder in Amy's eyes as she takes it all in.

"So," the Doctor prompts jovially as he bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, an unmistakable smirk sprawling across his lips. "What do you think?"

"It's…it's _wonderful_ ," she replies in a breathless, awe-struck whisper. "But how did you find it? More to the point, how did we manage to _miss_ it, night after night? A dirty great elephant head, you'd have thought it would stand out amongst the cookie-cutter buildings surrounding it."

"Well, it _was_ fairly well hidden," he reasons. "Not only was the Moulin Rouge literally built _around_ the body of the elephant, but they'd also thrown a massive tarp over it, and littered the entryway with a bunch of KEEP OUT signs, disguising it as an unfinished renovation. I assume Christian had something to do with that. Tired of the tourism, I suppose. Also, it _was_ heavily guarded."

" _Was_ heavily guarded?" Amy asks, a look of _what the hell have you done this time_ flashing across her eyes.

"I…might have persuaded Toulouse and his narcoleptic friend to take the night off," the Doctor replies cryptically.

"However did you manage—" she begins, but the Doctor cuts her off.

"We've all got our secrets, Pond," he quips with a mischievous wink, offering her nothing more in the way of an explanation. Amy merely smiles and rolls her eyes, taking his proffered hand and allowing him to lead her out onto the balcony. Together as one, they lean against opposite sides of the heart-shaped silhouette framed in scrolling gold, transfixed by the sparkle and glow of city lights mapped against the inky black, star strewn sky. Twin sighs escape their lips as they savor the tranquil beauty of the early hour, that peaceful little pocket of time before daybreak where all is as still as can be.

"This is where our characters…where two very _real_ people…first fell in love," Amy muses, breaking the silence. "Right here, in this very room. A Parisian courtesan and a penniless writer."

"Astronomical odds," the Doctor remarks thoughtfully. "Two people from entirely different walks of life, finding one another and falling in love."

"A bit like a faerie tale," Amy chuckles, wondering if he still thinks the same of her full name. He turns toward her, giving her a wink and a jovial smile to indicate that he still does.

"And now," he sighs, head tilted upward toward the sky, peering through the gaps in the golden latticework of the elephant's crown that serves as the balcony's awning. "Now, their story will be preserved forever in a series of dramatized recollections, rife with poetic declarations and silly love songs."

Amy huffs out a laugh at that.

"I'm not certain I'd feel comfortable having my love life on display like that, cast out for all the word to see," she says after a moment.

"Well, Pond," the Doctor says, turning to face her as a magnificent smile spreads across his face. "Some people _want_ to fill the world with silly love songs. And really, what's wrong with that? I'd like to know."

Amy laughs in earnest this time, chasing him up the spiral stairs and around the rooftop gazebo as he belts out the chorus to the lyrical love medley shared by both of them in one of the opening scenes of the play. Together, they recite their lines from the scene, their verses from the duet, serenading one another at the top of their lungs, not a care in the world for who they might wake in the process, swinging from the wrought iron banisters as they laugh and sing their hearts out, until they're left breathless, collapsing down onto the boudoir's extravagant bed in a fit of giggles, spirals of dust rising up around their heads from the sudden impact after so many years of disuse.

 

_Love makes us act like we are fools_

_Throw our lives away for one happy day…_

 

As their laughter subsides, the Doctor chances a look over at Amy, watching as she dips her head back to gaze at the night sky punctuated by an expanse of swirling cosmos and glittering stars. Moonlight dances through the golden framed window just above their heads, casting shadows from the intricate latticework across the canvas of her skin, a delicate swirl of heart-shaped tattoos dappling the bridge of her nose and the plush of her lips. A serene silence settles over them as they lie there on their backs, sprawled out across the king-sized bed, reveling in the room's bittersweet history, where a forbidden romance had first blossomed.

There's something so familiar about the way she looks in this moment. With a wistful pang, he's suddenly reminded of the many times he'd caught her up past bedtime, lying on the floor of the TARDIS library, wildfire hair splayed above her like she's suspended in space, fingertips absentmindedly skimming the rippling surface of the swimming pool, lost in thought, captivated by the ever-changing, mesmerizing lights that waltz across the water and swirl all around her in an enchanting mist. 

It's a curious thing, those lights. They always change depending on the mood of the room's inhabitants. For Amy, they're nearly always cool, tropical shades of green and blue, with little flitters of pastel purple. Serenity. Curiosity. Melancholy. Ambivalence. Inner turmoil and secret knowledge she'll never let him indulge in uncovering. And he'll never dare to prod, of course. If there's anything she wants to tell him, the Doctor is confident that she'll do so in her own time. Still, he can't help but wonder what it is that goes on in that magnificent mind of hers…

"I'm going to miss this," she says as if on cue, as though she knows he was just about to ask what's got her so lost in thought.

"Being here in Paris during the Bohemian revolution," she clarifies, a wondrous gleam in her eyes. "Getting to experience its rich culture and become a part, however small, of its awe-inspiring history. Rehearsing from dawn 'til dusk every day for this once in a lifetime role. And I have you to thank for all of it. This adventure…it's a dream come true."

A faint blush prickles the tips of his ears, and he has to fight not to say something offhand and stupid like _it's nothing_ , because that couldn't be farther from the truth. These past few weeks with her have been an absolute _dream_.

"But what I've loved most of all," she says softly, turning to face him, eyes alright as they lock onto his. "Is getting to spend all of this extra time together. Singing and dancing and performing with you, sneaking around in the middle of the night to tour the building, just the two of us." 

She very nearly lets slip that she wishes it could be just the two of them _all the time_ , but a sharp pang of guilt at the thought of her fiancé sleeping soundly in the next building over stops her.

"I will, too," the Doctor says softly, a moment later. He tells her, with an edge of quiet desperation, that it never has to end, not unless she wants it to. That she's welcome to stay with him for as long as she likes.

_For the rest of my life?_ Amelia muses, the unspoken query hanging in the air between them. Instead, she simply smiles at him as she entwines her hand with his, and the two of them lay there in the atmosphere of long-lost love and well-kept secrets, staring out into the expanse of stars together.

 

_Though nothing will keep us together_

_We could steal time, just for one day…_

 

**• • •**

 

The Doctor wakes in a cold sweat, tangled in the sheets of his four-poster bed. Dazed, he searches the shadow-swathed corners of his bedroom, lit only by the eerie silver moonlight pouring in through his curtains. He turns to the space beside him, only to be reminded that it's empty. That he'd fallen asleep alone. Because _of course_ he had. He's _always_ alone. 

Breathing restless and uneven, the Doctor collapses back down onto the mattress, shoulders hitting the springs with a painful thud, and buries his face in the palms of his hands. He releases a soft little sound, a cross between a moan and a sob, lips twisting into an agonized frown as he's plagued by all the things he wishes he could have said to her in the Elephant Love Room. By the fact that he could have kissed her, could have invited her to stay with him, but had done the responsible thing instead, walked her back to the bedroom she shared with her slumbering fiancé and bid her goodnight with nothing more than a bittersweet smile and a trembling wave of his hand.

While he slept, his subconscious had seen fit to fill in the missing pieces, taunting him with all manner of forbidden phantasmagoria, conjuring a tantalizing vision of Amelia Pond in a strawberry gown, scarlet painted fingernails curled around the collar of his white button down shirt and black satin suit jacket as she'd pulled him flush against her. The two of them collapsing down onto the extravagant bed in the hideaway boudoir, their secret sweet escape. No fiancé, no rules, no finite lifespans to keep them apart. Just the two of them, together at long last, with all the time in the world to become lost in one another, in a world entirely their own.

For a moment, when he awoke, he had truly thought it might have been real. It had been a very good dream, after all. Not wanting to lose a single detail, he ricochets off the bed and shovels through his tweed jacket for his journal and a pen. He pulls the comforter up around his shoulders, pen poised on a blank page, letting the ink flow across the surface in a steady rhythm, a furious blush creeping into his cheeks at the image his mind begins to conjure.

_Amelia Pond is an alabaster goddess, with freckles adorning her skin like faded constellations. The soft emerald and hazel of her eyes is capable of stopping his hearts with a single glance, melting his resolve with a subtle curve of her magnificent lips._

_Her hair dances around her shoulders like a river of fire, like the skies of Gallifrey, enveloped in the perfumes of its finest flowers, poisoning his senses so that he can think of nothing else but her, constantly. She is seared onto his hearts._

_Enter the Doctor, a foolish pawn in her game. He'll bend to her desires, crumble in her hands and become anything that she wants him to be. Forever, he is hers, and for tonight, even if only in the most absurd of fantasies, she is his._

The Doctor sighs as he tucks his journal away safely and rolls over onto his side, curling in on himself as he falls back into an uneasy sleep.

 

**• • •**

 

No more than ten minutes later, the floorboards outside of his bedroom door groan and creak as gentle footsteps creep along the passageway. Swathed in a silken dressing robe, Amy Pond stands with one hand curled into a fist, hovering a mere two inches from the ornate, polished wood. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, knuckles poised to rap lightly against his bedroom door, a determined look set into the crease of her eyebrows. 

She stands like this, frozen to the spot, for at least five minutes, and then finally concedes to nerves, shoulders loosening, arm falling back down at her side in a quiet, defeated sigh. She glances down at the envelope crumpled in the palm of her other hand, careworn and yellowing, creases spreading like spider webs all across its surface, as though she'd been holding onto it for quite some time, folding it over and shoving it into the pockets of her skirts and sweaters. 

The paper crinkles louder than she means it to as she opens up the envelope and pulls out a neatly folded two-page letter. Reads it for what must be the hundredth time, scanning over her own tidy cursive scrawl, mouthing the words _never expected to fall_ and _so much that it terrifies me_ , making absolutely certain that the confession she'd memorized long ago still sounded okay, even now. 

Her mind wanders briefly, as it always does in times of heightened anxiety, to sillier things. The way he trips over his own feet and runs head first into doors and statues, the way he makes her laugh, his entire face lighting up like it's his greatest accomplishment. A bout of giggles bubbles up from the depths of her stomach and gets caught in the back of her throat, heart skipping a beat as his radiant smile swims before her in her mind's eye.

She's loved him from the moment he quite literally crashed into her life, this brave, mad, wonderful, impossible man. She loves every little thing about him. The way he challenges her like no one ever could, leads her headlong and steadfast into danger and mayhem, when _she's_ usually the one being followed. _She'd follow him anywhere_ , she muses, and the overwhelming truth of that sends a fresh wave of panic through her chest. 

Rory had told her the very same thing, once…the day he'd asked her to marry him. She thinks of Rory, fast asleep in their bedroom, arms wrapped tightly around a pillow in her absence. She thinks of the ring he'd given her, set atop a lengthy letter on their shared nightstand. Rory, who looks at her like she's _everything_ , like she's his whole world…compared with the man who has the whole of the _universe_ at his fingertips. 

The Doctor will live forever, if he's lucky. And one day, no matter what she does, no matter how careful she is, she will die. And the Doctor will just keep on living, keep on travelling, keep on meeting so many others just like her. And she'll be nothing more than a memory, a tiny blip on his radar, never enough to keep his interest…and little more than a ticking time bomb of inevitable heartbreak and misery even if she _could_.

She heaves a sob that masquerades as a sigh, tears silently streaming down her face as she tucks the letter back into its envelope, folds it up, and places it into her pocket. Hastily wiping her eyes, she finds her way back to her bedroom, crumples up the letter left out on the nightstand, and slips her engagement ring back on her finger, before climbing into bed with Rory.

A small smile spreads across her lips as she watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, and she thinks, _maybe_ …maybe this could be enough. Maybe this could make her happy. Maybe _Rory_ could make her happy. After all, Rory _loves_ her, and that, in itself, should be enough. And perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, a life of comfort and security is better than a life filled with passion and adventure.


	5. Act Five

**• Act Five •**

 

Opening night finds the Doctor crouching at the bottom of Amy's closet in her wardrobe, mere minutes after the final dress rehearsal has ended, amongst an array of silk and satin dresses, ruffled can-can costumes, and floor-length silken gowns. The moment he hears her enter her dressing room, a masquerade mask, complete with an avian beak and brightly colored peacock feathers, falls atop his head. 

Intrigued, he positions the mask over his face and adjusts its strings, accidentally tangling them into the strands of his hair. As quietly as he can possibly manage, he waits for the perfect moment to strike. Adorably unaware of the Doctor's antics, Amy settles into the cushioned chair at her vanity. She takes the foundation powder brush and sweeps it across the bridge of her nose, sneezing violently as the powder accidentally goes up her nostrils.

"Bless you," the Doctor whispers, without thinking.

Amy bolts up in her chair and stiffens, her eyes searching the corners of her room for the foreign sound. The Doctor claps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head at his stupidity. Amy slowly rises, heavy wooden hairbrush in hand, and creeps over to the wardrobe. 

Her fingertips barely brush the doorknob when, in one swift, graceful motion, the Doctor thrusts open the doors, leaps out into the middle of her room, and throws his hands into the air, shouting nonsense at her. Amy screams and throws her hairbrush at him, which smacks him hard across the shoulder.

"You complete _arse_! You scared me half to death," she scolds, trying to sound angry and intimidating, but the Doctor catches the tiniest hint of a smile underneath her scowl.

"That was good, though, wasn't it? Come on, admit it. I really scared you that time," he says, his laughter muffled by his absurd mask.

"You look like a cross between a giraffe and a peacock," she giggles.

The Doctor hastily removes the mask, which only serves to ruffle his hair even more, and offers her a cheeky grin. Amy moves toward him, gently cupping his face in her hands and smoothing the strands of his hair back into place. 

She's swathed in champagne silk adorned with delicate diamond sequins and twists of gold, an elegant gown for the finale that's fitted to her every curve. She wraps her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through the tousled tendrils of his hair, and the Doctor has to struggle to keep his head straight as her perfume envelops him. Violet. 

_Code Violet_. 

Aphrodisiac. Ambrosia. Love Potion. Siren Song.

And yet she isn't wearing a single swatch of purple. The one time she's managed to best him in this little game. 

Her laughter vibrates against his skin, and before he can even contemplate the whereabouts of his missing bow tie, she's rushed out the door and bolted down the winding corridor behind the stage. He chases after her, laughing harder than he has in weeks, and catches her around the waist, pinning her to the wall, and pleading for the return of his precious bow tie.

Amy taunts him, brandishing the little red bow tie out of his reach, and with a wicked smile worthy of a minx, she slips it down the front of her dress. The Doctor's eyes grow wide and he swallows thickly, trying his damnedest to keep his eyes level with hers. As the both of them stand there, laughing breathlessly, the impact of the moment settles in, and the Doctor becomes painfully aware of the fact that his lips are a mere whisper from hers. 

The palms of his hands, pressed against the wall of the corridor, are all that's keeping him suspended above her. He expects her to laugh it off and run away from him, but she doesn't. She simply stands there, her eyes alight with a sense of determination that confuses the Doctor beyond all meaning.

Without warning, she's closed her eyes and leaned in closer, drawing him in with a cascade of wildflowers and memories of home. He knows that he shouldn't. He knows that giving into temptation would alter the course of their history forever. And though he'd rather not admit it, he knows that all of this playful banter of hiding in wardrobes and chasing each other down corridors, of midnight toasts to a never-ending future of mad adventures over glasses of champagne, and all of their secret, nighttime tours of the Moulin Rouge these past few weeks, is wrong. 

Completely, absolutely, and perfectly _wrong_. 

This isn't the way it was supposed to have happened. He never expected to fall for her. Never expected to meet someone who could capture him so easily, so entirely. Every single cell in his body aches for her. With every fiber of his being, he wishes that he could collapse into her, wrap his arms around her and kiss her properly, take her by the hand and run away with her, live out the rest of her days travelling the stars together. He knows it's impractical, knows in his hearts that she belongs with someone else, that _her heart_ belongs to someone else. And so he forces himself back, thrashing the intimacy of the moment, and instead, tickles Amy senseless. 

She's laughing, tears sliding down her face as she gasps for air, grabbing handfuls of his button-up shirt to push him away and pull him closer all at once. The Doctor lets out a small gasp of pain as the sharp edges of her engagement ring prickle against the skin of his bare chest, cutting wounds far deeper into his hearts than any physical laceration ever could. 

Amy's eyes grow wide, a mumbled string of apologies tumbling out of her mouth as she reaches out to soothe the reddening patch of skin she'd managed to set free when she'd tugged off half his costume's buttons. She falters, hand poised in mid-air as the facets of the solitaire diamond and its slim golden band glint and shimmer in the soft glow of the lights overhead. With a frustrated scowl, she moves to take it off, to stow the offending thing in her pocket and out of sight, but the Doctor stops her, placing his hands atop hers and fixing her with a determined frown.

And then, before he can say anything else, she's twisting away from him, turning down the winding corridor and back into her dressing room to prepare her costume and makeup for the opening scene. In the fleeting seconds before she disappears, she gives the Doctor a look he can't quite comprehend. In that moment, his entire repertoire of languages escapes him, and even the most beautiful of Gallifreyan words could never do her expression justice. It's deeper than sadness and stronger than wistful longing, torn at the seams by shock, relief…and _acceptance_. For a moment, the Doctor considers the impossible notion that perhaps Amy has wanted this all along, too. 

And then the moment is gone. _Amy_ is gone. 

His hearts fracture as he plasters on a fake smile and slowly makes his way back to his own dressing room.

Tonight is both the very first and the very last live performance of _The Courtesan and the Writer_. The last night of their counterfeit dalliance. 

After tonight, they'll be off on their next adventure, and he'll never be allowed to be this close to her…to hold her…to kiss her… _ever_ again. 

Eventually, she'll leave him for good. Either she'll tire of him and leave of her own accord, or she'll stay long enough for him to watch her die. That's the trouble with humans and their fragile, finite lifespans. They always leave him, in the end.

In the distance, he hears the roar of the crowd as they begin to chant and cheer.

They're summoned to the stage. 

The curtain rises. 

They assume their roles. 

The show must go on.

 

**• • •**

 

Years later, after a collection of wild, mad adventures with rogue dinosaurs, ghostly sirens on pirate ships, and an underground nightmare maze in a Dalek asylum…after he had watched, helpless, as Amelia Pond had walked willingly into the arms of a weeping angel and been lost to him forever in 1930's Manhattan…the Doctor finds another letter. Not an afterword, or anything professionally printed in the very last pages of a published novel…but a simple, neatly folded, two-page, handwritten letter, tucked into an unassuming, plain white envelope, careworn and yellowing with age, crumpled up amidst the remnants of Amy's old wardrobe.

By this point in time, the TARDIS had gone through quite a few renovations, yet it had still managed to keep Amy's quarters perfectly preserved, exactly as they had been the day she'd left him for good. Curious, the Doctor unfolds the letter, and begins to read. A bittersweet smile chases a cascade of tears that stream down his face as he exhales a tremulous sob, and presses the letter to his hearts. Hands shaking, he withdraws a very old leather-bound journal from out of the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, and tucks Amy's letter inside. There it will stay, perfectly preserved, the most precious memory of them all.


End file.
